Can I Get a Slice?

After almost five years together, we reached a small problem.  It went something like this: 

Me:  “I’d sure like pizza.  We haven’t had pizza in a long time”

Him:  “I miss it.”

Me:  “You know it's not just a spontaneous thing…people think it is, but it’s not.”

Him:  “Yeah?”

Me:  “You have to schedule pizza.  Just like you schedule dates at the beginning of a relationship.”

Him:  “Oh, I get it.  And then if it happens at the spur of the moment, that’s just a bonus.”

Me:  “Exactly.  I mean… at times, you are having pizza almost every day.  And then it gets boring.”

Him:  “Pizza gets boring?”

Me:  “Yeah, you know.  Before you realize, you are ordering the same thing every time.”

Him:  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Me:  “Remember when you were younger, you would have pizza all the time?”

Him:  “Yes…”

Me:  “And if you’d get together with your favorite bud, you knew you’d have a slice?”

Him:  “Oh, yeah!”

Me:  “Well, I think we should resolve ourselves to having pizza three times a week.”

Him:  “Sounds good to me!”

Me:  “How about Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays?”

Him:  “That’ll work!”

And that brought a lot of fun back into it.  We don’t have pizza every Wednesday, Friday and Sunday; but most nights we do.  It can be a bit rich to enjoy it all the time.  But the pizza is always good.  I am never indifferent about it.  Sometimes it’s spicy.  Sometimes it’s mild.

Tonight The Man has a cold and a runny nose.  That means only one sad thing.  It’s Wednesday, and no pizza for me.

Photo Courtesy of the  Pizza Review

Sleep Challenged

For the second night in a row, I’ve had trouble sleeping.  The first night, The Man woke me by snoring loudly in my ear.  I had to bunk in the other bedroom (where I could still hear him snore).  The next day I visited my doctor.  She suggested that he get checked for sleep apnea.  Over dinner yesterday evening with our best friends, I brought up the subject.  “We all have sleep apnea.” was the dismissive response.  OK, I guess I can scratch that solution to my problem.

Tonight my sleep was interrupted by my having to take a bathroom break.  And sure enough when I returned to bed, The Man had switched his position in bed to face me.  Though not too loudly, now he was snoring directly at me.  I simply got out of bed.  After all, I had gotten five hours of sleep (more than the night before).   But as I exited the bedroom, my grandparents to mind.

When I was a child, I would spend the night at my paternal grandparents occasionally.  I would sleep in the living room, either on the sleep-sofa or on a pallet on the floor.  My grandparent’s bedroom was down the hall and on the other side of the house.  From my spot in the living room, I could hear my grandfather snoring.  The sound was the decibel equivalent to that of a chainsaw.  I had no idea how my grandmother slept through it.  Maybe it was the Ozzie and Harriet twin beds that did the trick, and thusly my grandfather could not snore directly in her ear.  But she was in the same room as the grizzly, and he almost kept me  awake at night.

Maybe my maternal grandparents actually had it figured out.  Not only did they not sleep in the same bed, they slept in different bedrooms at opposite sides of the house.  As a child I wondered at it, but I’m sure I never said anything (adults puzzled me anyway).  My maternal grandparents were very affectionate with each other, even calling each other pet names.  So I guess it wasn’t an attraction factor to warrant the separate sleeping chambers.  Perhaps it was the snoring factor.  Again, it’s still a mystery to me.  Maybe an aunt can shed some light.

So here I sit in front on the computer at four in the morning, listening the Dvořák’s ninth symphony and drinking soda.  Wonderful.  Even the dogs and the cats are asleep.  I’ll be walking in a fog by four o’clock this afternoon.  I do not want to give up the closeness of sleeping with the guy I love.  Solution?  I think I see ear plugs in my future.

Knowing When You Are Lucky

There is a picture on my desk taken about 13 years ago.  A woman and me.  Our faces are touching, side-by-side.  I have my arm around her, and both of her hands are wrapped around mine.  My hair is a mess, but I apparently couldn't tell the night the picture was taken.  Her beautiful red hair is perfect.  We look like a couple of kids dressed up for dinner with their parents.  It is one of my favorite pictures ever.

I met the woman at work.  When I interviewed at the small organization of about ten people, it was the practice to have the prospective employee meet with each individual staff member.  She was the office manager.  I met with her and another member of the staff at the same time.  It was a brief interview with the two.  The executive director of the company had a simple rule:  “If you feel as if you and the person could have a beer together, we can hire him.”  I learned later that the office manager, when asked what she thought of me, responded with a casual “He’s all right.”  To which, the executive director countered with “I thought you’d be more excited since he’s gay.”  The office manager was the only gay person on staff.  “Well now that I know that, I say hire him immediately!”  And I was in.

She may have regretted it later.  I was in my early 30s at the time, more than a bit immature and quite a bit high-maintenance.  I would check in at her desk a couple of times a day, complaining about my even more high-maintenance boss.  She would listen for a little while and then say with exasperation, “You need to return to your desk.”  Her office was directly next to the executive director’s office, and my friend would warn me.  “She’s going to storm out of her office, see you here and bite your head off.”  And the director did a couple of times.

My friend kept her work and private life somewhat separate in those days.  She talked of introducing me to her partner, and eventually that happened.  Her partner and I hit it off quite well.  I began hanging out with them, at their house, for happy hour almost every night of the week (we were in our early 30s), for weekend bike rides.  With the time that I spent with her, I learned that she is alternately raucous and reserved, candid and considerate, indulgent and impatient.  But she is always radiant, chic and incomparable. (Now, if she’d just quit asking if I color my hair…)

A few years back, I first heard her refer to me as her best friend.  I honestly had to mask my surprise and delight.  I felt warm inside for days after her simple proclamation.  If you don’t understand, think back to the coolest girl in high school:  the one who did her own thing, the one who could care less about anyone’s estimation of her, the one who knew she was special and knew her friends were as well.  And here she is, all grown up: still cool, still individual, still extraordinary.

She told me once that the only reason that I had stuck around so long was that I was the person whose company both she and her partner enjoyed.  I laughed aloud at that, but the truth rang louder.

If I believed in it, I’d say that fate brought her into my life.  But I’ll just say it is luck.  I know how lucky I am to be her best friend.

(Photo by Justin De La Orenellas)

Keeping It Clean

I got on a cleaning kick this morning.  Amazingly.  I tend to be somewhat of a slob.  Not a terrible one.  Just a bit disorganized, and more than a bit lazy about housework.  Of course, living with a former Navy man has spoiled me a tad.  The Man cleans about everything that does not and a few things that do move.  This morning I tackled my bathroom (yes, we do have separate bathrooms – I recommend it for all housemates.  It cuts down on conflicting grooming schedules).  He cleans his bathroom.  I clean mine.  Mine stays quite clean.  It’s the clutter that gets out of hand.  But I cleaned and cleared this morning.  And the mind jumps.  It landed rather logically on “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”  And my mind jumped again.

I did not know when we first started dating, but The Man does not believe in God.  I write this with some reluctance.  Some of my family members read my essays, and my relatives are largely Christian.  I do not want them trying to redeem him and save his soul.  The Man’s father, heart in the right place, does much of that already. 

When I did discover that my guy was a “non-believer,” it made no matter to me.  Though I was raised a Southern Baptist, I had given up on church.  After coming out as a homosexual, it was not so much a decision as a result.  I heard from friends and relatives that I was going to Hell.  People would tell me that they were praying for my soul.  I endured sermons about the evils of homosexuality.  Really Christians?  Really?!

Abandoning the Christian faith, I still felt the need to worship.  So I started attending a local Buddhist temple.  I enjoyed the serenity of the religion, though I did not delve too deeply in the tenets of the faith.  Not doing my homework resulted in the following anecdote: 

One Saturday morning, The Man and I were relaxing at the house.  The doorbell rang.  The Man walked to the front window.  He returned to the living room.  “Don’t go to the door.  It’s two ladies with bibles.”

“Oh, geez.”  I stood and rolled my eyes at The Man.  When I opened the door, the well-dressed women began by telling me about Jesus and his “infinite grace.”  Then they invited me to their church.  I thanked them but told them that I already attended a temple. 

“Temple?” They asked.

Yes, temple. I replied.

“What kind of temple?”  They asked.

Buddhist temple. I replied. I’m a Buddhist.

“Oh!  Tell us about that.” They requested.

I babbled something about our belief that all beings were naturally good and that by striving to do well we meet our highest evolution.  It even sounded like bullshit to me.

“Is there another person here?”  They asked.

Yes, my partner is here. But you probably do not want to talk to him.  I said

At ‘him,’ their eyes widened.

He’s an atheist. I explained.

Eyes wider still.

They offered me a pamphlet and left quickly. 

And after hearing myself having a difficult time describing my new religion, I stopped attending temple.

Ultimately here I am, sharing a home with the most holy, righteous, cheerful, kind, and caring man that I have ever met.  Ok, so he’s not Godly.  He doesn’t force his views on others.  He doesn’t go door to door preaching of an untended universe.  He keeps a smile on his face without the assistance of a spiritual family.  Ok, maybe he is godly.

Cleanliness was the first priority with my grandmother.  Also, she was one of the godliest women I’d ever met.  Before she passed, we had a conversation one afternoon.  I had recently come out and was raw-nerved due to my separation with the church.  I asked her.  “Maw-maw, do you think that I’m going to Hell?”

She gave me a direct look to the eye.  “Of course not.  You’ve got a good heart.  God knows that.”

My cleaning this morning brought my grandmother back to me.  And today that was the only godliness I needed.

Always There

She has always been there for me.  But more importantly than that, she has always just been there.  She has been the most constant presence in my life.  In my earliest memories my sister and I were together, somewhat forced to spend time with each other.  In the late-60s, my family lived on the grounds of a plant in east Texas where my dad worked.  On the property, there were only two houses:  ours and one across the road.  The family in the other house did include a teenage girl, who spent a bit of time with my sister.  But most days, my sister and I passed time exploring the creeks and woods near our house, riding our bikes on the dirt roads around the plant, and listening to our mom’s 45 records on our small plastic stereo.  We learned to get along, which we did very well.

My sister went to live with our grandparents in Louisiana when she was five.  The earliest that children could start school in Texas was at age six.  So she spent her first school year away from the family.  I do not remember being especially broken-hearted when she left.  Maybe it was the knowledge that I would have our mom all to myself; maybe it was the assurance that I knew my sister would return.  She did.

My dad was transferred to Tennessee when I was five.  I didn’t have much fear of the move.  Given our living situation in Texas, I had not had the opportunity to make close friends that I would miss.  Above all, I knew that I was taking my best friend with me.  My family spent a year in Tennessee before returning to our hometown in Louisiana.  And there we stuck.

Living in a small suburban area outside of a small town, other kids were available for friendship.  So my sister and I began to spend less time together.  Over a long period of time, I had to be weaned from my want of her company.  She would expressly state that I did not need to hang out with her and her friends.  So, I started to hang out with the boys in the neighborhood. I enjoyed it, almost as much as I enjoyed being around my sister.  Almost.

As we entered adulthood, we stayed close.  She was the best aunt possible to my son.  And when my wife and I divorced, she helped out immeasurably.  I had the delight of seeing her become a mother (four times over).  And as good of an aunt she is, she is an even better mother.

Now we both are busy with our lives.  But we talk on the phone once a week; more frequently when there is some crisis or tough situation brewing with either of us.  She is the person that understands how I work, probably more than I know how she does.   She had a two-year jump on figuring me out.  But I have a pretty good handle on her as well.  She is thoughtful and sympathetic.  She possesses a sharp wit and a quick mind.  She can keep her head in the craziest crazy circumstances.  In a word, she's incredible.

I love being in her presence.  We laugh together at the most inappropriate times. We cry together when all seems hopeless. We relax in each other’s company, secure in the knowledge that we can just be ourselves: no masks, no shields.  When I look into her lovely blue eyes, I know that all will be just fine.  Everything.

My best bud

Although I’ve talked a little bit about him, I think it’s time to direct a bit more light toward my awesome son.  Many people may think they have the best child in the world; I’m one of those.  And he came into my life totally by accident.  Well, just in a matter of speaking…

He wasn’t planned.  Being young and carefree, my wife and I were not concerned with birth control.  So I guess the arrival of a baby should not have been a big surprise.  When my wife was pregnant, I insisted that we not find out what the gender of the baby was with a sonogram.  But not able to withstand surprise (she even read the last few pages of each new book to determine if she wanted to dive in), she asked the doctor anyway.  I did not accompany her on that visit, but she greeted me with a huge smile when I arrived from work that evening.  I knew what had happened, so I asked her.  98 percent certainty that the baby was a girl.  I was disappointed; she was elated.  In the delivery room, the anesthesiologist kept telling my wife “Here comes that beautiful girl.”  I’m sure that I was grimacing.  The doctor lifted the baby up and said “Does a girl have these?”

Our son was such a low-maintenance child.  All he craved was attention.  And he got it in big doses.  Having lost a set of premature twins a year and a half earlier, my wife and I had a ball with the new baby – cheering him on at each milestone:  his crawling, walking, talking.  Since he was the first baby in the family (first grandchild to both sets of our parents), he was doted on incessantly.  He was almost always smiling and happy.  When he did manage to get a little grumpy, all you had to do was tickle him a bit and he would break into infectious laughter.

I’m sure many parent were and are enchanted by their children, but I was mesmerized.  I had gotten what I wanted – to have a son and be a father.

Before he was three, I had come out and his mother and I had divorced.  I became a weekend dad.  It didn’t make much difference.  I would pick him up from his mom’s every other Friday evening, and we would spend a whole weekend of just dad and son time.  I would always ask him, “So, what are we doing this weekend?”  He loved to call the shots, and we would do almost anything he wanted.

When I moved to Houston, I had a difficult time withdrawing from our biweekly contact.  But I did make the trip back to Louisiana once a month to share a weekend with him.  And we talked on the phone a couple of times a week.  The closer he got to his teen years, he wanted to talk on the phone every day.  I understood and reveled in his want of daily conversations with me. 

When he did get to his mid-teen years, he moved to Houston to live with me.  That lasted about six months.  With my not being much of a disciplinarian and with his lack of interest in conventional education (and not bothering to attend school at all), his grades went south quickly.  His mom and I decided that it was a good idea for him to return to Louisiana.

When he graduated high school, he again came to live with me.  Once more, he lasted about six months.  Turns out that he is more of a county boy than a city one.  One night he looked up at a sky bright with urban lights and told me “I miss my stars.”

24 years passed so quickly.  He just started college.  He is engaged to a wonderful young lady.  I am so proud of him.  I tell him just that and frequently.

My partner and I are going to Louisiana to visit him and his fiancée this weekend.  His mother will come to visit as well.  We will play dominos, watch movies, laugh and just enjoy each others’ company.

Over the course of his life, I have told him repeatedly that he is the best son that I could have ever hoped for.  I began to get it back.  I started hearing that I am the best father in the world.  While he and I were talking on the phone the other day, I heard the words “You’re my best friend, Dad.”

Sweet.

What to Do? AKA "Mystery Dance"

I miss him.  For about 20 years, he was a constant in my life.  And then we weren’t there for each other.  I wish I could understand, but I can’t figure it out.

When I first came out in my 20s, I began to go to Shreveport, Louisiana to experience the nightlife.  As luck would have it, my first trip to the gay bar in the city was a bit of a jolt.  As I approached the door, I saw the younger guys (like me) pulling out their IDs to show the man just inside.  I pulled out my driver’s license and walked into the bar.  Who was working the door?  A guy from my hometown.  Not only a guy from my hometown, but one of my old school mates.  He had boxed with my cousin in middle school.  He and I were in high school band together.  When I saw him, I almost turned around and made the hour drive back home.  But I took a deep breath.  I approached his podium and handed over my ID.  He raised his eyebrows as he looked at me.  “I thought that was you!” he smiled.  “I didn’t know you were gay!”  The truth be known, I had always had my suspicions about him. 

Although we had not been close in school, he and I became good friends:  he introduced me around the gay scene, telling me who to avoid, helping me when I didn’t take his advice, being a mentor in my early queer years.

One night, he had a party at his house.  He had invited a photographer from the city paper.  Let’s call her “Sherry.”  Sherry brought a guest.  A tall thin guy with fair skin, high cheekbones, green eyes and glasses.  He was a bit quiet.  He and I played darts in the gameroom.  He was horrible at it.  He had a bit too much to drink and seemed to only hit the drywall around the dartboard.  I liked him.  Let’s call him “Greg.”

Another night, another party at my classmate’s home.  When the party got a bit rowdy, Greg suggested that we hang out at his place and have a couple of beers.  Before I got into his car, he had to move a pile of cassette tapes from the front to the back seat.  When I got in, I looked at the back seat.  It was stacked with tapes.  I laughed.  He smiled sheepishly.  I was a big music fan.  When we got to his place, I was really impressed.  He had about a hundred albums and a turntable.  “Play anything you want.” We drank beer and listened to music until late in the night.

Another night, my classmate and I were at the bar.  Sherry was there and more than a little drunk.  “Greg loves you, you know.” She slurred at me.

What?

“He told me so”

The next time I came to Shreveport, I dropped by Greg’s house.  We were just hanging out in his kitchen as he prepared coffee.  I decided to drop the bomb.  “So…Sherry told me that you are interested in me.”

He blushed and turned to face me.  “Yeah, I guess I am.”

It didn't work.  It’s as simple as that.

We maintained the friendship, and it became stronger than ever. 

He began looking for work in Houston.  I visited Houston myself and ran into a man who fell for me.  So I began looking for work in Houston myself.  I got a job and relocated.  About a year later, Greg found a job in Houston.  We never missed a beat in our friendship.  We hung out together a couple of times a week, went to the clubs together, listened to a lot of music.

He saw me through a lot of men.  I would go through a new one about once a year.  He would roll his eyes a lot.  He would say that people didn’t need to be coupled.

I met “The Man” about five years ago now.  Around three years ago, Greg, The Man and I had breakfast together.  I was in an especially cantankerous mood, complaining about the long lines and generally making a scene over nothing.  Greg was distant as we said our good-byes. 

I called him about a week after that breakfast.  I had to leave a message.  I called again the next week.  I had to leave another message.  I called a couple of weeks later.  Another message.  He never called me back.  After a year and a half (about six months ago), I called again.  Another message.

A couple of weeks after that call, I grabbed a six pack of his favorite beer and headed to his house.  I knew he’d be there, since he works from home.  I knocked on his door.  He answered the door with a look of bewilderment.  “Hello?”

“You want a beer?”

“I’m working right now.”

“Can’t you take a break?”

“I really can’t.  Can you give me your number?  And I’ll call you.”  (He deleted my number?)

I was shocked as I drove away. 

Greg did call that evening.  “You want to come over?”

“Sure!”

When I got to his house, Greg was quiet.  We made small talk until I couldn’t take it anymore.  “Greg, did I do something wrong?  You just disappeared on me.”

“I just thought that we needed a break from each other.”

We made plans to meet for lunch.  And then we did a couple of times.  We made plans to meet one day for lunch, and work got busy for me.  I called him and asked if we could reschedule.  “Sure,” he said.  “Just call me next week.”

Work didn’t slow down until a month later.  I called him and got his voicemail.  I left a message.  A couple of weeks ago when I didn’t get a call back, I sent an e-mail.  No reply.

It’s a mystery to me.  And it hurts.  Does there come a time when you just let go of a friendship?  This guy introduced me to Elvis Costello, to the Clash, to the Pretenders, to Rancid, to Joni Mitchell.  I may call him again.